A Strange New World
by LackingCandor
Summary: A series of JLA adventures in set in a series of alternate universes. Primarily focused on the main three, most often Batman, but you'll see some others popping in now and then. Suggestions Welcomed.
1. The Flying Fox

**A/N: This was an Elseworlds idea recommended to me by a reader, and I think it's going to be the first of a series of JLA Elsewords one-shots. If you have any ideas, Elseworlds or otherwise, let me know and you might see them in the future!**

Flying Fox

The torn muscles in Bruce's arm ached as he pushed the Joker higher and higher up the wall. A sickly cackle echoed up and down the alley, laced with globs of blood and saliva, causing a would by purse thief to turn tail and dive back into his hovel. Even Bruce let him fall back to the scarlet pavement, Joker kept up the tortured giggle, clutching at the stumps on his left hand where his pinky and ring finger used to be. A mad bite of pain hissed from the very backs of his eyes though, and he knew that if anyone would catch it, it would be Batman.

"So Bats," he choked, "got any more pummeling for me tonight before I slip off to brew up one last barrel of toxin until Foxy finishes the job?" Bruce narrowed his eyes at the beaten villain. Even in what h knew were his final hours, he still managed that eternal grin.

"Where is he?" Bruce demanded, digging into his belt for bandages, which he threw to his old foe. Joker shot him a curious glance—a flash of rare genuine uncertainty.

"The Batman, helping out little old me? My this has been a strange day." Bruce's lips grew thin with impatience.

"I asked, where—"

"I heard you, Batty-boy," Joker interrupted, wrapping up his mutilated digits. "You know, patience is a virtue." He cackled wildly—Bruce threw his head to the sky to make sure_ he_ hadn't caught wind of it. "He said he had go home, imagine that. Said he'd be back for poor old Joker later."

"He wouldn't," Bruce growled, clenching his fist. Joker cocked his head.

"Oh really? What is it? Mommy issues? Daddy issues?"

"A little bit of both," Bruce said, tapping a button on his comlink, telling Alfred to get to cover in the cave. Part of his heart burned and itched at the thought of leaving Alfred to deal with that maniac, even though he knew no harm would come to him. Not after all those years of care, even through all the burns and the bruises and the tears.

"You know," Joker said, spitting out bits of blood and teeth, "I'm the last of a dying breed. I'm like a polar bear, only nobody is quite rallying up to save me from extinction. Except you, Bats. Curious, isn't it? All those years of fighting, and all it took was a loose canon doing your job a bit too well to bring you over to our side. Well," he considered, "I guess it's just my side, now that the Fox has fried Scarecrow."

"Guess he finally ran out of that damned gas of his," Batman said, slumping against the opposite wall. Looking at the pavement, he swore he could still make out the dark stains where their parents had bled out under the gun of Joe Chill.

"Course he did," Joker laughed, "the rest was crammed under the Asylum before the Fox blew it sky high. Lost my imaginary friend in that fire." He chuckled at his own little joke. Bruce tried to wipe the screams of a thousand inmates from his mind.

"You're wrong," Bruce said after a minute of silence, as Joker was patching up the last of his wounds, "I'm not on your side. I never have been. I'm just preserving life, like I promised I would."

"Who'd you promise that to, Batty?" Joker asked with a fiery gleam in his eye, the kind he only got from cheating at his own game. Bruce froze for a moment, taken aback—Joker knew?

"My parents, as they were dying in this very alley," Bruce said, "But you knew that, didn't you? That's why you were here, waiting for me. Thought it would make a fun little game?" Joker cackled, raising his hands to the sky.

"I admit it, you've caught me," he listed, "I thought it'd make quite to climax to our little adventure, Batman, you catching the last of of what you promised to rid this city of in the place where your crusade began, only to see it done by someone else, an imposer in your venture." Joker's smile widened. "You know he's coming, Bats. Both of us do. And you know what he's going to do to me. And all you'll be able to do is watch, knowing you couldn't do anything to stop it. How does it feel, Bats? How does it feel?"

"How long have you known," Bruce growled, cracking his knuckles.

"Since I came upon a Mister Edward Nigma bleeding out on the sidewalk outside a children's puzzle store. He thought he'd share your little secret with me, you know, to keep it alive, so to speak. Quite obvious, now that I look at it, can't believe I never saw it before." Joker rested his head in his hands waiting for Bruce's response. Bruce swallowed.

"But," he said, leveling himself, "if you've known all this time these past months, why not come after me at home, why not go after people I know? Hell, why are you still calling me Batman?" Joker shook his head, crooked teeth shining like candles in the moonlight.

"You still don't get it, do you, Bats? What kind of fun is that? With the Fox, it's all pain and no banter, but with you, you're still making the effort. You play along! Why would I take the last remaining player out of the game? I've got nothing to gain from winning." Bruce didn't know what to say. "Look, Bats, I'd have left this city months ago if I thought I could get the same thrills anywhere else."

"But I've been trying to get you out of the game for years," said Bruce, incredulous. Joker shook off the comment like a used towel.

"You and I both know that's never going to happen," Joker said, grinning ear to ear, "This city needs both of us. You, to keep them safe from all the crazies we know are coming right back, and me, to keep them on their toes and to give them all a little bit of fun in their dreary, empty lives." Bruce rubbed his temples.

"You know," Bruce said, "that's weird, even for you."

"No more 'weird' than a one of the world's richest men spending his wealth on gadgets so he run around town in the middle of the night, fighting crime." Bruce smiled. Were they finally agreeing on something? It was sickeningly comfortable.

Suddenly, out of the darkness, a whistle cried out, announcing _his_ arrival. Both Bruce and Joker looked up at the noise.

"You asked why I still call you Batman," Joker said. Bruce nodded. Joker shrugged, "I think it sounds cool, that's all." Bruce finally laughed. Joker gasped in shock, "Finally got one out of you, didn't I? You know, you've got one last chance to keep your promise before he gets here." Bruce shook his head.

"You know my rules."

"Pity. It probably would have been much less painful."

A crash echoed throughout the entire alley, and as the figure landed, bits of pavement and brick rained over them. Out of the dust he stepped, standing proud, ready to deliver his final judgment.

"Flying Fox," Joker muttered, watching the scarlet cape flap weakly over black spandex and the fierce face of a bat. "That's funny. Fruit bats don't kill."

"Clark," Bruce growled.

"Brother," Clark said, "stand aside while I wipe this last speck of grime from the city streets." Bruce stood strong. It all flashed through his mind in that moment—his first memory, Clark's ship crashing through the trees outside the manor, lighting up his first bedroom—Clark hoisting his mother out of her reading chair at age two—finding the note Jor-El had left the Waynes in the space pod—that night at the movies—the alley—the gunshots—weeping over his parents bodies as Clark tore Chill to bits—leaving Clark at home as he went off to explore the criminal underworld—becoming Batman as Clark looked on in envy—watching Clark don the Scarlet cape and begin to cleanse the streets on his own agenda—Alfred's tears.

"It stops here," Bruce said, "He must be tried." Clark shook his head in disgust.

"Our parents are dead because of people not half as evil as him! The only way we can avenge them is to rid the streets of people like them! We promised that over their bodies years ago, have you forgotten?"

"Not like this," Bruce said, "If we kill like them, nothing separates us between us and them. We don't get to decide who lives and who dies."

"No," Clark growled, "We are the only ones with the power to do just so. I've had two pairs of parents die at the gun barrels of maniacs because nobody stood up to them the right way. I'm doing what needs to be done." And with that, he threw Bruce against the wall before he could react, and shot twin beams of burning lasers into the skull of the Joker, who didn't stop laughing until his face became not but a melted scorch mark. Bruce threw himself at Clark, but the Flying Fox was too quick, diving to the side.

"There, it is done," Clark said, planting himself on the ground.

"What have you done?" snarled Bruce, blood drizzling from both nostrils.

"Saved this city. Goodbye Bruce, and get some sleep. You finally can. I told Alfred to make cookies for you, and I know how much you like those. When you finally want to thank me, come find me. I know you'll manage."

Bruce watched as Clark flew off into the brilliant sunrise, and as he disappeared, Bruce pushed himself up, slipped out of crime alley, and took off his mask. He had no need for it anymore.


	2. Diana's Finale

**A/N: So, I've just finished up Christopher Priest's **_**The Prestige**_** over the weekend, and while I'm still in the mood, I decided to do a bit of a story interjecting some notable JLA characters with early 20****th**** Century magicians and exploring the terrors Gotham could bestow on the art of magic itself. This wasn't my most planned out story by far, so forgive me if the pacing seems off or it seems confusing. Again, reviews are appreciated.**

Diana's Finale

Through the thunderous applause and shrieks of glee, Giovanni Zatara put his lips to Bruce's ear.

"You already have all of his material in the bag," Zatara whispered, "Anything you can't perform now you could certainly buy up with all that gold money your parents left you. They didn't buy up those mining camps out West so that their only son could be a second rate illusionist." Bruce shot him a disconcerting look.

"Never thought I'd hear those words out of your mouth, John," he said as the orchestra swelled and the applause shrunk to a melodious hiss, "I thought you were all about self-discovery. You were the one who told me to check this guy out in the first place, remember?"

"Yes, I do," Zatara admitted, watching the grinning magician prepare the next part of his act. "But I did not expect you to take me along with you to the performance—his act places a certain unease upon me."

"Shut yer yap!" hissed the patron directly behind them, a snarl spilling across his lips. The duo fell silent and turned their eyes upon the stage once more.

"Madam, you see these cards before you, correct? I'd like you to take a good look at all their faces, won't you now?" The crisp deck of freshly shuffled cards transferred hands, and the baffled woman who had volunteered her services began sifting through it. "That's right," the magician said, "All there?" She nodded. "How about we let everyone else see?" With that, he drew his hands to the sky and the deck split itself in a wave, facing the audience, who crackled once more into applause.

"Easy," Bruce muttered, too quiet for anyone but Zatara to catch, "Where's the crescendo?"

"It's coming," Zatara assured him.

Returning the cards to his palms, the magician threw them together in a chaotic blend, shuffling them before the audience could what he was doing with his wrists. Bruce smiled wryly, almost hoping he would miss just one card, but it was not to be. Presenting the deck to the woman, the magician finally leveled his makeup crusted eyes.

"Pick a card," he said, juicing the words out his lungs with a near sexual pleasure. She did as he asked, and uncertain, showed it to the audience. "Oh what a fool I've been," the magician said, "I've left in the fool." The grinning face of a court jester stared out over the audience. "In fact, let's check to make sure I've got them all out." With that he flung the deck into the crowd, showering them with disproportionate hundreds of identical jesters.

Amidst the applause, Bruce snatched one of them out of the air, looking for bent edges, signs of wear, anything, but it was clean. The magician couldn't be faulted in skill, he decided, but his originality seemed lacking. This was the third jester inspired trick of the evening—there was only so far one could stretch the boundaries of his stage name.

As the claps died down once more, the magician stepped to the center of the room and steadied himself. Staring up into the rafters, he took is a breath, opening his posture to the audience.

"Ladies and gentleman, may I present the glorious Diana Prince, who will be assisting me tonight." As the hem of a brilliantly violet skirt crept onstage, Bruce gasped deeply, clutching his chest as though he had fractured a rib. Zatara placed his hand upon his shoulder, pinning him expertly to the theater seat.

"Did you know she had started working for him after she left me?" Bruce hissed, to the disapproving glares of several nearby.

"No, I did not," Zatara awhispered, assuming a nervous edge to his voice, But then again, I have never seen him use the same assistant twice." Bruce scowled—he and Diana had parted ways roughly the last time they had spoken, and he had said some things he wished desperately to take back, even in their first moments out his mouth, but he hadn't expected her to join another act so quickly, even a quickly rising one, just to spite him. She had made it clear when she cut their relationship short that she had been anxious to leave the field of magic for months, if not years. Had he hurt her that much?

Up in the glare of the stage lights, the silky curves of her cheeks glowed like a crackling electrical coil. Her eyes were a pair of golden lamps—Bruce swore she was looking hard at him, either in bitterness or subdued longing, he couldn't tell. Something caught his careful eyes, though: her stride, once fluid and lengthy, now seemed slow and painful, as though walking upon bits of shattered glass. Though her beauty disguised her failing stage presence, something told Bruce she was regretting every inch of the crawl to the grinning magician.

She smiled, as if to say, "I'm glad to be before their eyes." The audience responded with a cacophony of enthusiastic claps.

"That's right," the magician said, "give the lovely lady a hand." Then he snapped his fingers, and someone in the crowd screamed. An invisible noose had grasped Diana by the ankle and hauled her without pause toward the arched ceiling, finally leaving her hanging some thirty, forty feet in the air above the polished stage floor. She did not say a word, nor make a noise throughout the entire episode.

"Oops!" shrieked the magician, long ivory teeth gleaming, "It's looks as though Miss Prince is in a spot of trouble up there! Whatever shall we do?" From offstage, a technical aid wearing an almost unnerving clown mask pushed a small wooden cabinet up behind the magician.

From somewhere in the audience, a patron yelled, "Let her down!" The magician cackled.

"Very well then!" he said, and with a wave of his arm, Diana fell silently to earth, eyes clamped shut. Bruce's throat closed up and his heart was set ablaze.

"No!" he gasped soundlessly.

But she seemed to fall straight through the floor and for a tense second, she had disappeared without a trace. Then, without warning, the cabinet burst open, and Diana leapt forth, an intense grin plastered upon her. She now moved with ease, dancing up to the magician and, grabbing his hand, bowed to the crowd.

The audience, realizing only now that it was on its feet, applauded wildly. Bruce's heart thudded in his chest, but his worries for Diana slaked and tossed aside carelessly by her brilliant return, some greater worry inhabited him: how could this man, the mere Jester, have come upon such a trick before he?

* * *

><p>Back at the Wayne Manor, Bruce and Zatara sat wordlessly at the table, musing. Giovanni's daughter, Zatanna lay asleep on the couch, a thick blanket draped over her. The thin lamplight from the table lay softly across her face, but she didn't move—her own show had nearly bombed that evening due to a failed escape, and she hadn't wasted a moment after she returned, brewing herself a hot Irish coffee and letting sleep take her. Bruce noted to Alfred that she would need a hearty breakfast in the morning.<p>

"Off night?" came a voice from the shadows. Into the light beamed the strong face of Clark Kent, hands grimy from a day of work on Bruce's latest illusion.

"He saw Diana again," Zatara spouted before Bruce could say anything.

"She didn't take you back, I presume," Clark asked, pulling up a chair next to Bruce and patting him reassuringly on the back, "One of these days, Bruce, one of these days she'll come back."

"What John failed to mention," Bruce said, scowling over at Zatara, "that we didn't actually speak to her—she was at the show we were checking out."

"Jester's?" Clark said cocking an eyebrow, "That has to be even be rougher."

"That's not my issue," Bruce said. "Jester has a new trick, and I can't quite figure it out. It's great, I have to admit, but something about it feels off—it shouldn't be possible."

"That's what most people would say about what we do every week," Clark pointed out.

"This is different," Bruce said simply, and described the trick. Clark shrugged his shoulders.

"A good double?" he suggested, but Bruce shrugged it off.

"Too good." But even as he said that, an idea took hold of him, a terrible, fantastical idea beyond anything he had ever considered within the bounds of the illusion. All the facts seemed to clunk heavily into place like iron gears, and an icy hand gripped his lungs—he hoped to God he was wrong. Jester wouldn't dare take his quest for magic to such a dark corner, would he? His throat caught again, and all he could sputter out was, "I have to go. Wait for me."

With that, he stood up, threw on his coat and pushed out the door into the cool Gotham night, sulfurous fumes of colossal factories dancing along the air into his nostrils. Behind him, he felt the eyes of his compatriots on the back of his head, but they said nothing. That was for the better, Bruce decided—this needed to be discovered.

* * *

><p>Though the La Scala venue had closed hours ago, Bruce could still feel the heat of wonder radiating off the entryway. He could practically hear the crowd's questions echoing together into a mysterious mud. Around back was the basement storage door—this is where Jester's equipment would be.<p>

Quickly picking the lock, Bruce stuck his head and listened for any sign of movement. No sound met his ear, so, closing the door, he began his slow, careful crawl down the staircase. They were made of a stable wood—no creak rose up from his steps as he descended—the sign of recent work. Jester's show must have been bringing in a lot of money over the past weeks.

As he reached the bottom, Bruce scanned the silent darkness for a lamp. One lay on the counter nearby, and Bruce sparked it aflame, sending a ray of golden light across the huge storage rooms. Each one of them bore a number of odd contraptions set carefully upon either stands or work tables, and even more wooden crates.

Bruce searched through them, one by one, shining the light over the labels of the crates—the machines he had seen elsewhere, and did not interest him at the moment. A party list of names fell across the majority of the well stored and locked boxes, ranging from a set of the Flying Grayson's poles and balance balls to the sets of an old play of a now gloriously renown play director.

Finally, though, he came across the scattered, new crates belonging to the Jester, as labeled. Each bore the name of a separate trick, the largest few labeled _The Falling Maiden—Finale_. Bruce frowned. Three large crate to hold but some rope, catching equipment, and a small cabinet.

_Perhaps the transportation method is more complex than I considered,_ he thought to himself, studying the enormity of the boxes. He knew he should just leave it all their and walk away, let the man have his trick. After all, that was the credo they all lived by: secrecy and respect to the end. But something in Diana's eyes that night pushed that all aside.

Bruce told himself as he was breaking open the largest of the crates with a crowbar lying on the nearest workbench that he didn't need her to take him back, but the stronger part wouldn't give up hope—this trick could clinch it for him, couldn't it?

Finally, with a sharp crack, the wood burst open, and something tumbled out. Snatching up the lantern, he bore it over the crate, and with a sickening crinkle in his stomach, Bruce fell to his knees, mouth twisted and torn. Before him lay a crushed and crumpled body of a stage assistant, mouth frozen in horror, clothes soaked in old blood.

Pushing the body away, Bruce turned his head and dry-heaved. Finally, he managed to turn his head back to the mass of broken bodies, and that was when he saw her, lying toward the back of the pile—Diana, battered and ruined like the rest.

"No!" He said it aloud this time, voice like a cracking piece of chalk. Kicking bodies aside, he knelt down next to her, breaking away a piece of crate shadowing over her. It was her. She was dead.

Bruce cradled her in his arms for what seemed like hours, gently sobbing into the dusty air. He intended to stay their with her forever. She would have to rise to him then, wouldn't she? But behind him, he heard the crack of voices, and with one last look upon Diana's beaten face, he extinguished the lamp and knelt in the shadows, fists braced.

"—really blew 'em away tonight, Jester, didn't you." said a grumbling, earthy sort of voice.

"Why Clay, my good friend," came Jester's voice, "the whole show rested with you and your timing and proper transformation into the woman, don't you know? You did marvelously. And of course your domination of her will as well, Grod."

"Good God, I feared you had forgotten me," said a third voice. The three shadows were barely visible in the dim candlelight—Jester, and two larger bodies. "Did you leave the door unlocked?"

"Must have been one of the blasted stage hands," Jester said lightly, "Perhaps we'll find the one and use them for tomorrow's show."

Bruce thought quickly—there were too many of them for him, and he knew it. He would be killed if he attacked, even with stealth, and then Diana would never get her revenge. He took slow, quiet breath, knowing what he had to do. Bruce kissed Diana's bloody brow, and with one last look, darted up through the shadows, grabbed a spare stone, and tossed it at Jester's head. He heard the sickening thud as it connected and the following scream told him to take his moment.

Bruce bolted up the stairs as quick as he could muster, and didn't break pace until he landed on the doorstep of the Manor, choking and sobbing her away.

* * *

><p>The next night, as Bruce placed the mask over his hollow eyes, he made a promise: never again would the tricks he had learned so readily to impress Diana all those years ago be seen by anyone until the evil that destroyed her fell. Never again.<p> 


End file.
